


Our Hearts Beat in Our Chests

by RavensWing



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Barn Sex, F/M, Light BDSM, Like, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Right?, Wax Play, cuz who doesn't like reading about animated characters getting down in a thousand words or less?, everyone likes that, just a buncha sexy drabbles, right?!, sex sex sex sex sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 10:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10274954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavensWing/pseuds/RavensWing
Summary: Kristoff and Anna. A collection.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These were all posted on Tumblr and I realized that if something hiccuped in the internet - they would all disappear. So this is me cross posting and realizing that archiving is important. Enjoy.

The first time Anna saw Kristoff, she thought of mountains. He was all hard planes and rough surfaces. She wanted to explore him. Tonight she does.

Her fingers memorize the crevices and crags of his shoulders, his back. They map the forest of hair across the rippling hills of his stomach. She tastes the bottomless cavern of his mouth and then finally, finally, she climbs atop his peak and stakes her claim.

The air is thin on his summit and it leaves her gasping and dizzy, but the view is spectacular. 

He comes like an avalanche, crumbling and breaking apart with a roar. She watches as she falls down with him, tumbling into oblivion, swallowed up in his cascading brilliance. 

Someone once told Anna that man could not move mountains. Now she knows that woman can.


	2. Oceans

She is an ocean and there are hurricanes and holocausts inside of her depths. He sees it every time they touch. He will drown in her one day, he knows, but it is the only way to die.

He reaches up with work rough hands to hold onto supple breasts. He needs an anchor. The rolling tide of her hips threatens to sweep him into the oblivion of her ocean floor, but he won’t go yet. He can’t because her eyes flash lightning bolts, warning him about being swept away without her, and he feels their strikes in his bones. White hot and wicked, she burns her name onto his tongue.

“Anna,” he gasps because his lungs are so full of _I love yous_ and _Fuck - fuck me harders_ that there is no room for air.

She is the pounding surf. He is her rock. She will use him until he is worn to nothing and he will let her because she is beautiful. She is everything.

She drags his hand down her body to the volcano at the apex of her need. She shows him just how not to get burned, but how to set her on fire.

The riptide of her currents grabs her first, tearing her apart and slamming her into him with tsunami force. It catches him a moment later and it was all he could do to hold on.

He is in over his head but cannot remember what was so great about breathing anyway.


	3. The Trembling of Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title borrows from “Romance” by Edgar Allen Poe.

He loved a girl the color of autumn. Her hair was a tangle of sunsets and secrets. He had never seen anyone quite like her so he stayed awhile. 

He wanted to learn the language of her back, the articulation of each syllable of her spine, until he was fluent in the bow and sway of her body. He wanted to linger along the curve of her waist, to learn the dangers of such perilous slopes, and survive to tell the tale. He wanted to chart the apex of her thighs, to be the master cartographer of her pleasure, and he committed to memory each aspect of his studies.

She sent a funny pull at his heartstrings and drew him to his knees.

He submitted himself to her a perfect portrait of supplication and need. She laughed, throaty and warm, and he felt the wonder in her eyes like lightning down his spine. He may be at her mercy, but she was also at his. He used that revelation to his advantage and brought her down to join him. 

The floor was cold, rough, unbending, and everything that she was not. She was molten, silk, and pulled sugar sticking and molding each plane of her body to his. She was flame, glass, and steel taking everything he offered without apology or retraction. 

Only then, when she had taken everything, did she ever whisper _more_. 

She would be the death of him, and he was glad of it.


	4. Tinderbox

The summer burned long and everything is scorched brown and wanting. Anna understands because her body is tinder under his touch. Rough fingers send sparks down her spine, blisters across her back, and she is on  _fire_.  _  
_

He presses her against a tree, miles away from caring who sees. The trunk scrapes into her bare back, but she lets him press closer still because he is the only thing that keeps her from melting right out of her skin.

Her fingernails clot with dirt and skin, gripping rolling shoulders, crawling up the ladder of his spine, because she needs him _closer_. She needs to climb inside of him to keep this heat from burning her to nothing. 

He swears against her throat and lifts her like it is nothing. 

Bark leaves scrapes up her back and there will be bruises in the shape of his hands against her hips tomorrow, mapping this memory into her skin. She relishes it.

She watches his face, his eyes bone dry and beautiful, as she wonders at the deep, familiar stretch. The fire under her skin spreads and there is no part of her that isn’t engulfed by flame.

They are fire that feeds itself, insatiable, never burning out.

She wouldn’t have it any other way.


	5. Memories

He carried her with him always.

He always carried her with him.

He carried the taste of her on his tongue for days as a reminder of just how sweet something could be. Out in the mountains, alone, it was easy to forget anything - or anyone - else existed. That was until Anna stumbled into his life all pink and green and perfect. Now every time he ventured into the wild, he took a piece of her with him as much as he left a piece of himself behind. 

He remembered the way she held him so close before he left, hot and close. The heat of her seeped into his bones as he pulled her just that much closer. Her skin impossible, the silk of her dresses paled in comparison, and he would explore every inch. He follows freckles like a map, lips tracing each one, until the find the apex of her need. His tongue dives deep, taking her pleasure. He used to ask, but now he knows. He know what she wants and he gives it to her.

He remembered the way her fingers dug trenches down his back when he sunk inside her. Like if she held on tightly enough she could anchor herself against the building storm, like she knew it was only a matter of time before she tore into half because he always feels _so big_ \- even after all this time. 

He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing the same air, and then he moves. Her whole body tightened against him, building towards the inevitable, and he goes with her. His lips graze hers, still slick with her, and she shudders. She cries when she comes, hard gasps between words he taught her, and he doesn’t even try to hold on any longer. 

They lay together, spent, and remembers not to swallow too often. He remembers not to drink too much, because her taste was in his mouth now and it needed to stay there until he made his way back to her.

He may have to leave her again and again, but she was never far from him because he carried her with him always.

He always carried her with him and no time or space could take that from them.


	6. Keeping Warm

Her body bows off the bed, spine a cathedral arch, and she  _pulls_ the satin binding wrists to bedposts. She can hear him breathing -  _feels_ it hot and slick along her skin - and the silk scarf across her eyes is damp with desperate tears and sweat. Her tongue tangles on his name, knots tightening, because the hot drip comes again -  _again -_  creeping up towards the over-sensitive peak of her breast. Every inch of her tightens in anticipation. 

When that ultimate drip comes (and it does - oh  _it does_ ) she feels it in her every fiber. She feels it beyond herself, like the sensation is too big to stay inside of just her. She whimpers.

“Do you want to stop?” His voice is raw, sex-wrecked, and he hasn’t even touched her properly yet. “Just say the word, and I’ll stop.”

She shakes her head against the pillow, just about the only freedom of motion she has, and she finds her voice buried beneath her crushing need. 

“Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

He doesn’t.


	7. The Sound of Breathing

She slumps back, sweaty skin flecked with bits of hay and earth, as she waits for her bones to re-imagine themselves as something solid. She peers down between the valley of her breasts, world hazy on the edges, just in time to see him press a chaste kiss to an unchaste place. The coil that had sprung just moments before began to curl again at the sight, winding tight beneath her belly. 

She wants to reach for him, but her body has still not pulled itself back from its little death. Her limbs lay prone, empty, and helpless against his assault. She drops her head back onto the pile of hay, sweet and rough, and groans as his tongue sweeps the length of her cleft.

Warm, callous-rough palms run the lengths of trembling thighs, a week of stubble scrapes mercilessly against tender flesh, and she thinks to beg. She just isn’t quite sure what she should beg for. He won’t be denied her body, her pleasure, and she knows that. She also knows, as sore and swollen as she is, that she will never ask him to stop. 

A single word stumbles past teeth-worried lips: “ _Please_ …”

It sounds nothing like her, but he seems to understand and eases two work-hard fingers inside of her. Her back arches, pure instinct, because she knows she doesn’t have the energy or ability to move herself. She wonders, fleetingly, how anyone ever lived without this. 

Then it is all bright lights, white noise, and  _holy hell_ she cannot breathe. 

As she comes down this time, he slides up her body, his two fingers still working mercilessly into her. 

“I want you.” He pants into her hair and all she can do is moan as his fingers leave her and _he_ slides in. 

It is a solid two hours before she can walk by herself.


	8. No Matter What

The tendons and sinews of his neck bunch and swell. The thin skin across his clavicles, his cheeks, and _lower_ glows a bright flush. His hands clench fists in sheets at his side because she is using her teeth and it hurts on just the right way.

He chokes deep in his throat, air catching on sensation, and she startles at the noise. He pops out of her mouth, bobbing back against his stomach and she just **breathes** on him.

It takes all of his control to not take her head and force her mouth back over him. He flexes his muscles to keep them from moving. His cock, blood red and painful, twitches against the heat of her breath.

“Anna…” He looks down just in time to see the flicker of doubt jump into her eyes.

“Did I do something wrong? Do you want me to stop?” Her hair falls soft across her heat stained cheeks, her lips swollen from sucking him, and he wants to always remember her this way.

“No - fuck - no - just -” he drops his head back to the pillow, swallowing a mouthful of nothing, drowning on dry land. “Just don’t stop. Don’t stop - no matter what.”

He can hear the devil’s smile on her lips. “No matter what?”

He knows he may regret this: “No matter what.”


	9. Storms in our Bones

He has thunder in his bones, electric and terrifying, and she can feel it roll through her as real as she can taste the salt on his skin. Hot, thick, and heavy - his words fall on her neck in rhythm to the incessant tattoo of his hips. _Mine, mine, mine_ \- she cannot tell if he is speaking anymore or if he has finally pressed his chant deep enough into her that it she hears it with every beat of her heart.

He has storms in his eyes, deep dark and deadly, and if she is not careful she will drown in them. Torrential, his love pours over her, but she is gasping for more. _More, more, more_ \-  she cannot tell if she is still speaking the words or if she can hear them in his every touch because he gives her everything.

He has lightning in his touch, tingling and transcendent, and she is sure her heart is failing. Stuttered breath, clenching fists, and this is how she ends. Or where he begins.

She resolves to spend the rest of the night figuring out just which.

(She never does)


	10. Layers

She peels, corners and edges curling and disintegrating as the flames grow up under skin. Layer after layer - page after page - of her ideas of what love could be turn to ash in the wake of scorching fingertips and she is _crumbling_. 

He is a relentless, crushing heat. Too large,  too strong to be contained in her mind as just a simple man. He is more, too much, not enough. His breath fans flames across her kindling covered skin. His stubble scrapes the flint between her shaking thighs and - _fuck yes right there oh gods - !_

She had been taught the science of fire, its hunger, its needs, but all she can remember now is that fire breathes. It _breathes_ and she wonders if that is why she cannot draw a breath. The flames inside of her steal the air from her lungs until she is gasping and dizzy. 

If this is what it is to catch aflame, she hopes she burns to death.


	11. In Her Skin

She never felt quite at home in her skin. 

It never fit quite right. _She_ never fit quite right. Always too loud, too quiet, too happy, too sad, too awkward, too much, _never enough…_ she felt the imbalance strain against, constrict around, herself until she feels bruised and misshapen. 

She never felt quite at home in her skin. 

It itched, chafed, as she waited behind closed doors and wondered if the walls around her were actually closing in and crushing her the way she felt they were. She did not know what existed outside of the palace grounds and she cannot imagine that there is anywhere out there that she would feel differently than she did in here.

She never felt quite at home in her skin, but one day…

She pushes him onto his back and straddles his hips with her thighs. Sunlight through the trees speckles his broad chest, glinting gold on the hair sprinkled there, and she marvels at each swell and dip of his flesh. She studies at the way it attaches to his muscle and bone without fault, how it stretches when he reaches for her, how it bunches beneath the too light brushes of her fingertips. She presses herself against him then, sealed tight, like she cannot get close enough. Like she wants his body to teach hers to fit just right the way his does. 

His mouth is a heavy weight against hers as he surged up and turns them over. The grass beneath her back is damp, prickly, and it spurs her to arch up against him. She wants to fill every space, every crack, every gap between them. Her need for proximity is unapologetic, ravenous, and he does not complain. Instead he hooks his hands behind her knees and enters her in one smooth thrust. 

Nails (which were never as clean or smooth as she knew she should keep them) dig trenches in the thick pads of his shoulders. He stretches her, pressing into and filling her until she feels the energy of it all the way into her toes. His breath steals into her mouth and she breathes him in. Each breath she takes, each thrust he makes puts something back in place - pulls something back to where it belongs until her heart feels like it could explode from just how _right_ this all feels. 

When they are done, he smiles down at her. Hair as golden as the sun behind him falls over brown eyes and she smiles in return.

She never felt quite at home in her skin, until she met him.


End file.
